


Ustus Fortiter

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, the occasional topup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she and Sherlock agreed that they were even, Janine may or may not have been fibbing a little. But give it fifty years or so and she'll really mean it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ustus Fortiter

**Author's Note:**

> This is really stupid and lacking in substance.  
> I actually painted flames in Photoshop for this fic. Flames, people. Flames for a bible joke, no less.  
> I just don't know.

* * *

_**Ustus Fortiter - (Latin) Roasting Fiercely** _

* * *

He doesn’t think anything of it at first. In fact, he’s always enjoyed the song. So when it blasts through tinny speakers  _just_  as Sherlock Holmes walks into New Scotland Yard, he wonders idly what delinquent got loose and made it unnoticed to the P.A.  The sounds of a scuffle and running feet behind him have him shrugging, unsurprised that he was, as ever, right.

He even spares a moment of regret when the music stops playing seconds later. He’s already forgotten it, though, by the time he slams his way into Lestrade’s office, startling everyone inside.

* * *

He actually jumps a little when he steps into the foyer of the Diogenes Club and the same movement from the cantata begins playing again—this time with perfect sound quality and its volume up to heart-attack-inducing decibels.

Several teacups shatter, and the doorman stares at Sherlock with the utter panic of a man not equipped to handle anything as egregious as such a flagrant violation of the club’s strict, no-talking/no singing policy. Sherlock rolls his eyes and wheels around, trotting down to Mycroft’s lair, whistling jauntily with the choir and mimicking the clash of cymbals.

There _is_ something about it that speaks to him.

* * *

Strangely, it doesn’t occur to him that it’s personal until the incident at the Barts morgue later that day.

When he strides into the post-mortem theater, Molly Hooper is bent over a corpse, trying to pry a desiccated eyeball out of its unfortunate owner’s socket.  She misses the swish of the doors, too intent on her task to notice much around her. Before he can call out a greeting, however, it begins playing again. The same movement, a different choir, and if it’s possible, an even louder introductory volume.

Molly jerks violently, the eyeball coming loose and flying up in the air before landing with a crusty squelch that is miraculously audible in spite of the deafening music.

They both stare at it, nonplussed, before she wheels around, trying to find the source of the music.

It is only by some strange instinct that Sherlock turns his head in time to see a mop of dirty hair darting out of one of the coroner vehicle bays. He gives chase, but whoever it was has disappeared from sight by the time he makes it outside.

When he trudges back in, he finds Molly waiting for him. In one hand, she holds a portable CD player; in the other, a CD with no identifying marks on it. Her expression is less than impressed. 

“ _Really_? You decided you need a personal soundtrack to announce your arrival?” She thrusts the Sony and CD into his arms. “I know you like a dramatic entrance, but this is just odd. And I need quiet because, you may have missed it, I’m working.” And then she whirls around and stomps back over to her slab, yanking on a fresh pair of gloves with her usual lack of coordination.

“Wha-soundtr-no!” he stutters, too appalled by the mere suggestion to defend himself eloquently.

Molly just snorts and picks up her forlorn eyeball from the floor. She squints at it for a moment and then blows on it to get rid of a fleck of lint.

Grumbling and muttering, Sherlock hurries over to the counter and plugs the CD player in, inserts the disc and presses play. He only remembers to crank the volume down the moment after the first clash of cymbal and tympani. He presses Stop, but it's too late.

Molly shushes him with a frustrated glare before she pedals on her microphone to record an observation.

Feeling well sorry for himself, Sherlock stares at the items abandoned by the escaping figure. There’s nothing on either CD or player to identify the source. Glancing up at Molly to make sure she’s distracted, he lowers the volume until the dial is nearly at its last possible setting and then presses Play.

He glances at the digital track display and sees that it appears to be the full movement. Guiltily, not tearing his eyes off of the pathologist’s back, he moves to the next track.

Same movement, then.

Third track: Also the same.

He stabs violently at the track change button, and realizes that  _someone_  has burned _sixteen_ variations of the same piece onto the CD.  Trying to muster as much dignity as he can, he unplugs the player once more and moves back out of the morgue with his nose daintily held in the air.

Molly can just find her own dinner. And he’d even brought her the crisps dusted with the fake cheese that she’s so disgustingly fond of.

* * *

When he steps into his flat, he cringes, waiting. But silence is the only thing that greets him. Sighing with relief, he shoves off his coat and moves to the kitchen, intent on making further investigation of the musical stalker he’s acquired.

It feels like hours later, but is likely only three-quarters of one, when he sits back in his chair, eyes dry from too few blinks. He’s no closer to an answer, and he hates that with a passion.

Deciding to wash of the smell of formaldehyde that he is certain absorbed into his every pore in the ten minutes he was at the morgue, he moves back towards his rooms and turns on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. He is yanking down his trousers and jockeys when he hears it.

He almost thinks he's imagining it. It’s quieter this time. Muffled. But this is no daydream. Sherlock is positive he will actively work never to think of it again (if he ever manages to escape it).

Certain that the element of surprise is his for the seizing, that his would-be annoyer is waiting to hear a reaction before fleeing, Sherlock gingerly moves back to the door. He takes a bolstering breath as he grabs the knob, and with a shouted “AH HA!” he flings it open. But there’s no one there. No one but an forlorn iPod attached to a portable speaker on the floor.

The choir and orchestra blast away dramatically. The children’s chorus in this version is particularly shrill.

“No, no, no, no!” Sherlock bellows. He grabs a dressing gown off of the hook on the door and yanks it on, skidding down the hallway as he races to catch site of his opponent. Both doors to the flat are closed, and just before he does it, he rethinks running down the road clad in nothing but a robe. Instead he swivels around and runs to the window to peer down onto the street.

He slumps dejectedly as he peers outside. Of all the times for Baker Street to emulate a barren wasteland, this is the least opportune.  A laugh sounds behind him, and Sherlock immediately straightens, plastering on a bored expression before he turns to find a teenage girl leaning casually against his front door.

“Olive?” he frowns. She’s a runaway, living in a shelter not far from Barts. He’s not sure why she’s  _here_. He hasn’t seen her in ages. In fact, he’d hoped it meant she was no longer living rough. Apparently, not the case.

She grins impishly and digs into her parka’s pocket, procuring a snowy white envelope from its depths.

“Jig’s up, I suppose,” she says, falsely somber. “I forgot to leave this. My employer would have been disappointed.”

“Employer?” Sherlock demands. “I’m your employer. You’re part of my netw—“

Olive cuts him off with an indelicate snort. “A  _real_  employer, Numpty.  I’m the lady’s new personal assistant. She asked me to do a few things for her and discovered I’m quite efficient. She’s hired me on. Something about me being hard to knock out and how that’s a bonus. Anyway,” Olive strides into the room, shoves the envelope into Sherlock’s weak hand, and with a mock salute, is gone once more.

Whatever’s in it is lumpy. An almost-familiar, orangey fragrance is faintly noticeable on the paper, as is the bit of vaguely-recognizable lip stain on the edge of the envelope’s seal.

The card is strange. Not just the words themselves, though those, too, are odd.

 What makes it weird, though, is the hard, raised middle of the cardstock, almost as if something metal is glued to it.

Carefully, he opens the mystery missive. He barely registers the punch line before he realizes he’s pulled loose some sort of tab from that lumpy bit inside the card.

The surprised yelp Sherlock emits when that wretched song starts playing is the least dignified sound he’s ever let loose. But he’s too busy looking wildly around, trying to figure out how he should dispose of the abomination. It continues to play on a loop, ten seconds of the same bit of music, over and over.

Slamming the card shut, he breathes deeply in and out through his nose, talking himself into looking at the handwriting he missed at first, fleeting glance. He carefully opens the card, trying not to trip the song mechanism again. It takes a few tries, and when he finally succeeds, it’s only by opening the card a scant centimeter and squinting inside it with one eye.

Everything falls into place when he reads the neat cursive words.

 

His head falls back, and he stares up at the ceiling. Sighing forlornly, he whispers, “Very funny,  _Janine.”_

 

* * *

**Janine Hawkins' Playlist for Sherlock Holmes**  

(With links for listeners’ enjoyment)

  1. Orff:  _Carmina Burana, Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi_  - 25. [O Fortuna](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXFSK0ogeg4)
  2. Repeat #1, ad infinitum



* * *

 


End file.
